


My Heart

by Maeryn_skye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3123404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeryn_skye/pseuds/Maeryn_skye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wonders why he keeps getting dumped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I'll be late tonight." John thought about adding 'don't wait up', but decided it would be pointless. In all likelihood, Sherlock would still be up long after John had been on his date, returned home and went to bed. And it certainly wouldn't be because he was waiting up for John.

"So which is it this time?" Sherlock asked. He tried, really he did, to keep the irritation and condescension out of his voice, but was only mildly successful. 

A look of annoyance passed quickly over John's face. "Her name is Miranda. She's a museum curator and a lovely girl." Which, of course, was the main reason why John hadn't introduced her to Sherlock yet, despite the fact that they had been dating for almost a month. Miranda really was a lovely girl and he didn't want to subject her to Holmes' blunt often painful analysis. The other reason, deeper, only barely acknowledged by John, was the fear that somehow, for some reason, Sherlock wouldn't approve of her. And deep down inside John knew that if he were forced to choose between a relationship with Miranda or Sherlock's approval, there would be no question about John's decision.

Sherlock studied John's face for a moment or two, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure she is. Have a good night, John." He lowered his eyes back to the book in his hands and completely missed the puzzled, confused look his friend shot him before heading down the stairs and out the door.

~~~~~

John Watson was angry. Angry. Furious. Livid. And probably a few more that he couldn't think of at the moment. And what was making him even angrier was the fact that he wasn't exactly sure who it was he was so angry at. He was pretty sure that this was all Sherlock's fault, though try as he might, he couldn't _quite_ figure out exactly how to pin it on his friend. 

He and Miranda had been having a wonderful dinner. He had been telling her stories about his adventures since moving into 221b Baker Street. Of course, he had mentioned several times (ok, maybe more than several) how brilliantly Sherlock had solved each of the cases. He was still astounded by the detective's overwhelming mind and wanted someone else to know and maybe even appreciate just how incredibly brilliant he was. halfway through telling her about one of their cases that Sherlock had solved with even more brilliance than usual in John's opinion, Miranda had laid her hand over his. 

"John. _John._ John, listen to me please. I can't compete with this. Do you realize that Sherlock Holmes is the only thing you've talked about since we sat down?" John started to protest - the thought was ridiculous after all. Then he realized with a start that she was right. "I like you, John. I really do. But your heart belongs to him. You may not realize it yet, but it does. I could ask you to choose, but I know already what your choice would be. Go back to him. And please don't call me again." Then she stood, kissed his cheek and walked out.

John just sat there stunned, unable to do more than just shake his head in negation of everything she had said. He summoned the waiter, then quickly paid the bill and walked out the door. Then just walked. 

He was angry at Miranda for not understanding or caring about how amazing Sherlock was. He was angry at himself for thinking how amazing Sherlock was. But more than anything, he was angry at Sherlock for ruining his chances with Miranda. And Elise. And Chloe. And Melissa. And Rachel. Looking back over the last four months, he realized that Sherlock had been the cause, despite the fact that he had never met any of these ladies, of each of them dumping him. Every one of them had given him some variant of the excuse Miranda had used tonight. 

As he turned on to Baker Street, John's footsteps slowed and his anger was replaced by confusion. Was he really so enamoured of his flatmate that he was, either consciously or unconsciously, sabotaging every relationship he began? He reached the door of their flat but made no move to open it. He needed to think. He turned and made his way further down the street to a small pub he often sought refuge in when Sherlock was in one of his moods. He sank down in a corner booth with a pint and let the noise and laughter wash over him.

Ok, then. Time for a little self-examination. How - exactly - did he feel about Sherlock Holmes? Just asking himself that question brought up an unsettling swarm of thoughts, emotions and images. "No," he murmured aloud to himself. "Stop and think. Really think." He began to sort through everything with characteristic military precision.

Obviously, he was fascinated by Sherlock's mind. Even after months of living in each others' pockets, John was still continually amazed by just how frighteningly brilliant the detective was. He never tired of watching Sherlock in action, taking some unsolvable mystery and unravelling it by tea-time. He really had the most incredible mind John had ever seen. 

But behind that singular mind and colossal ego, there was something else - an uncertainty, a sensitivity - that John had only managed to catch fleeting glimpses of. Something about that hint of vulnerability in such a strong, self-contained man touched John in a way that few things ever had. During those rare times when John caught brief glimmers of the real man behind the icy facade, he had felt, immediately and unbidden, a desperate need to protect him. John knew he would do anything, _anything_ to protect the fragile creature he saw hidden below. 

Ok, so what about physically? Within the first two months, he had all but given up trying to explain that they weren't "together". His initial protests had been mainly to keep Sherlock from feeling uncomfortable. As he came to realize that Sherlock didn't seem to care much either way, he was afraid that his continued denials might be making him equally uncomfortable. Come to think of it, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of his time worrying about what Sherlock felt.

A physical relationship with another man wasn't something John had ever considered. He wasn't adverse to the idea, he had just never found a man he was attracted enough to. Until now, apparently. Certainly he was attracted to Sherlock. With his ethereal skin, tousled, 'just-got-laid' hair, lethal cheekbones and long, lean body, John would have to be dead not to find his flatmate deliciously attractive. Of course there had been occasional fantasies - brief, fleeting, usually forgotten by morning - and the not infrequent dreams from which he awoke gasping, sweating and achingly hard. John accepted these as a normal part of suddenly being in almost daily contact with another (very sexy) person after having been alone for so long. 

So yes, he cared about Sherlock. He admired him. He understood him better than probably anyone else in the world. He was definitely attracted to him. So far, so good. Nothing John couldn't deal with. But there was something else Miranda had said tonight. Something new. And that was something that Dr. John H. Watson was not at all sure he could deal with. "Your heart belongs to him." Was that true? John glanced down at his own chest. "Well?" he said. "Are you his or not?" Suddenly, overwhelmingly, he realized that the answer was a resounding yes. He realized immediately after that that he was sitting in a pub surrounded by people, having a (out loud) conversation with non-sentient body parts. Yeah, time to go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After realizing how he feels about Sherlock, John returns to the flat and finds a very pleasant surprise. Pure PWP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't end quite as graphically as I had expected mainly because I'm terrible at writing porn. Feel free to use your imaginations about what happened next. I may come back to this later once I get more comfortable writing smut or I may just leave it. Unlike Watson, making decisions has never been my strong point.

Once more John stood in front of 221b Baker Street. He still wasn't quite sure exactly how he was going to tell Sherlock about his epiphany, but John was a man of action and once a decision was made, he had no problem wading in full force and trusting his instincts to guide him.

As he walked up the stairs, his mind was occupied with picking up all the cues he had gotten used to using as a means of judging Sherlock's moods. There was no smoke billowing out the door of their sitting room. That was always a good sign. No sounds of gunfire or smell of gunpowder, either. That was an even better sign. That meant that Sherlock was either in one of his mellow moods - which would very good - or one of his sulky moods - which would be very not good.

John looked around the small sitting room curiously. Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Deciding that his flatmate must have gone out, John made his way over to his chair. He couldn't decide if he was relieved or irritated. He really had wanted to talk to Sherlock about this while it was still fresh in his mind. As he lowered himself into his chair, his ears caught the sound of running water. Ah, so that explained the mystery of the disappearing flatmate. Assuming that John would be out for most of the night, Sherlock had apparently decided to shower and possibly even go to bed at a decent hour.

At that moment, John heard another sound. One that drove all thoughts of decency out of his mind in an instant. From the direction of the bathroom came a low, soft moan. Quiet, but still perfectly audible in the near silence of the flat. John was mesmerized. He had often wondered if Sherlock ever gave in to his more human needs. He began stripping off his clothes as he moved stealthily closer to the partially open door. The soft, breathy sighs and moans coming from the shower were driving John out of his mind. He peeled off his shirt and trousers, sighing quietly with relief as his aching cock was freed from it's too tight confines. The images his mind was providing of that lovely, tall, pale body all wet and slick were almost enough to finish John off right then and there.

As he reached forward to push the door open, he heard another sound that stopped him in his tracks, if only for a moment. "John... Oh, John...". John's mind just stopped. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sherlock was thinking of him ...him!...as he masturbated. John was pretty sure that he had never been more turned on in his entire life. A low groan escaped his lips as he stepped out of his underwear and pushed the door open.

The sight in front of him was heavenly. Candles burned softly on every available flat surface. Sherlock was leaning back against the tile wall facing John. His skin was flushed and glimmering in the candlelight. His hair fell down into his eyes. One hand was gently fondling his balls while the other stroked his long, elegant cock. He looked debauched and utterly beautiful.

Sherlock's eyes suddenly flew open and he gasped. "John! John what the hell...oh jesus, John ... " He was startled, upset about being caught in such a vulnerable position. Then he realized that the man he had been fantasizing about seconds before was standing right in front of him, naked, hard and looking like he wanted nothing more in the world than to devour Sherlock completely. He came explosively, moaning John's name so obscenely that John had to use every bit of willpower he had to keep from coming himself.

"Come here." John moved forward at the softly purred command. His mind was melted, completely shut down. All that was left was Sherlock. He stepped into the shower and was immediately enveloped in the taller man's arms. Sherlock kissed him deeply, ravishing his mouth. John responded frantically. In the back of his mind, he tried to remind himself to be careful. Sherlock wasn't fragile by any definition of the word, but John was so turned on, so desperate, that he was afraid he might lose control and hurt Sherlock without meaning to.

Sherlock turned John around, then pulled him back against his chest. He leaned down and began kissing, nipping and biting John's throat. His left hand traced random patterns across John's chest, pausing frequently to tease his aching nipples. his right hand finally ...oh thank you, Jesus, finally... wrapped around his throbbing cock. "Let's take care of this, shall we?" John nodded desperately, having completely forgotten how to actually form words. Sherlock's hand was amazing - strong, gentle, knowing exactly where, when and how to touch John to make him come completely undone. He came so hard that he thought he might actually pass out. Sherlock held him against his chest, gently guiding him through the aftershocks.

When it finally appeared that John could stand on his own, Sherlock released him and turned off the water. "Bed?" he asked, eyebrow arched elegantly.

"Bed? Oh, bed. Yes, bed sounds like an excellent idea."

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic, written back in July. Just now getting around to transferring it to AO3.


End file.
